


Godly

by selwyn



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-04
Updated: 2018-07-04
Packaged: 2019-06-05 07:26:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15165617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/selwyn/pseuds/selwyn
Summary: The first time Ezio saw the prince of Masyaf, it was at the races.The day was hot and the cicadas thrummed in whining harmony, underscored by the dark olive trees rubbing their silvered branches together in the wind. The sun hung high like a golden disc and the sky was diamond-bright and unforgiving.





	Godly

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Billywick (Eisengrave)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eisengrave/gifts).



> I read The Song of Achilles and this sprung forth.

The first time Ezio saw the prince of Masyaf, it was at the races.

The day was hot and the cicadas thrummed in whining harmony, underscored by the dark olive trees rubbing their silvered branches together in the wind. The sun hung high like a golden disc and the sky was diamond-bright and unforgiving.

Under its sprawl, a thousand men from all four corners of the world prepared for the day of sports; stretching, chatting, betting. They’d been divided by age – young princelings clumped together, talking about their fathers, while the men, thicker and darkened by the sun, eyed the lords of foreign lands as if to measure the weight of their homelands.

Ezio would compete as well and he turned to let Federico pour the oil on him.

“I’m going to win,” his brother bragged in his ear. “You’ll regret competing, _fratello.”_

“Ah, we shall see when the time comes, won’t we?” he replied. The oil trickled over his shoulders, down the dip of his spine. He reached back to smear it over his skin. “The ones who speak early are the first to taste disappointment.”

“Smooth words,” Federico said, dumping the last of the oil on him before slapping his back hard enough to make Ezio wince. “But you’re younger than me – barely a man.”

“Old age makes bones brittle,” he rejoined and turned away from him. Federico merely laughed before he walked away, his fraternal duties completed, to join a cluster of youths some distance away. They’d circled somebody, Ezio realized, but not to bully – it was a circle of admirers, thronging but never touching.

He could not see who it was and he was ultimately uninterested in the answer. Ezio turned his head to watch people instead, and he quickly forgot about the admirers.

 

When it came time to race, Ezio was one of the first to line up on the track; a stretch of dust whose exposed dirt was testament to the feet that had beat it bare. He felt the eyes of the crowd on him and more importantly, the eyes of his father. He stretched until his legs felt pliant as bowstrings, ready to snap out and bear him to victory.

More boys lined up beside him, quiet and focused on the race. There’d been a line drawn in the earth and they toed it, each one trying to gain even a hair’s breadth of an advantage over everyone else, like horses bucking before a run. Ezio drew his breath, measured it, until he felt centered, and all he saw was the finish line – a distant strip of cloth that he had to squint at to see.

The horn blew and Ezio burst forward. There was that initial clamor of a dozen feet pounding on dirt, but Ezio coursed ahead of them, his blood high, his vision narrowed. But there was one pair that refused to be left behind.

They mirrored his own, step for step, except – and Ezio realized this with dawning horror – they were starting to outpace him. He pushed himself, willed greater vigor, but it wasn’t enough; out the corner of his eye, he saw who drew up next to him.

He might have been older than Ezio. He was certainly taller. His hair was short and his body was lean, and that was all he could snatch before the other youth soared ahead of him like an eagle plummeting for the kill. Ezio strained to catch up but it didn’t matter. He spent the last few seconds of the race staring at his back, trying to catch up and failing.

The youth dashed through the ribbon and Ezio closely followed him, feeling the trailing edges of the rough cloth tickle his ankles as he did.

No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t catch him.

 

“There is no shame in losing to god-born,” his father told him later. They retired to their tent after the excitement of the day – Federico was still out, likely carousing with the new friends he made.

“That one?” Ezio said, instantly interested. When his father had sat him down, he’d been unsure of what today’s lecture would contain. Most of them, he smiled through until his father followed suit. This one, however, caught his attention.

“God-born,” his father repeated. “Altair, a son of Aquila.”

Aquila. The luminous, light-crowned eagle of the heavens, who carried the sun across its back until was time to drop its burden in the dark sea, and trade places with Luxe and her attendants. Ezio wondered how it worked, between an eagle and a woman, and whether or not she’d need to close her eyes during the whole process. Altair, his name had been, scion of the sun-bearer.

“I see,” he said after enough silence had passed. “But that won’t stop me.”

“No?” His father’s tone was light and humoring, but not condescending. It was what made him a father among fathers – he knew when to laugh and also when to not.

“No,” Ezio said, firmer. “God-born or not, he still lives with us.”

“I suppose you’re right,” his father said and his voice was paternal. He reached across the tent and placed his hand on Ezio’s shoulder. Squeezed. In his gaze, Ezio saw his affection. “No man could ask for a finer son.”

Fierce joy swelled in his heart and Ezio felt taller. “I’ll make you proud,” he promised, his jaw set and determined.

 

The next day, he loses to Altair in the javelin throwing, then archery, and horsemanship, and weight-lifting. The one thing he does win in, wrestling, is the one that Altair does not join in. His victories could be attributed to his greater age, or his lineage, but they stabbed competitive resentment through Ezio.

It neared noon when it was time for them to line up for the melee. By then, the sun bore down on them unforgivingly and the hairline cracks of a headache spread through his skull. He’d drunk water and sat in the shade of the olive trees for a little while, but the heat was in his brain.

Altair was in this one, Ezio observed. He was too far away for him to see clearly but he caught hints of whippet-like muscles carved out of a lean, tall frame, and long legs with hard knees. The way they were ordered made it impossible to make out further details, however, so Ezio banished Altair from his thoughts and concentrated on the melee.

It was held in a giant pen big enough to hold the nigh-hundred youths who’d gathered for it, and the rules were simple. Stay in the pen. Fight until you were of the last ten still standing. No armor or weapons were allowed.

They lined everyone up against the pen, their backs to the crowd, in a wide and loose circle. To Ezio’s right stood a stout pig-faced youth and to his left, a boy who looked frightened. He waited tensely for the horn to blow, feeling sweat trickle down his back.

The horn blew. Ezio immediately rounded on his two neighbors first. The young boy went down as his nose cracked under his knuckles, and the youth toppled over when Ezio kneed him in the groin. They rolled in the dirt, pained, and moaning, but he paid them no mind. He stepped over the pig-faced one to seek out his next opponent.

As chaotic as these melees were, they required equal strength and cunning. One had to be a capable warrior, but also one who knew when to withdraw and spare his stamina.

Ezio dashed his knuckles on the teeth of another youth and bowled him over. Then he weaved away from a complicated tangle of bodies as several boys fought it out and picked off the ones who popped free. His blood was high and he could feel his heart drumming against his ribcage as if it would spring free.

The number of combatants on the field whittled down: fifty. Thirty. Twenty.

Ten.

The horn blew and Ezio looked up. The boy who he had been circling mirrored him, then they exchanged looks. _Later,_ their gazes said, though there was no promise that they would face each other.

The second phase of the melee rounded up the last ten standing and pitted them against each other, one by one, until there was a single victor. Ezio tiredly lined up and noticed Altair also in the line-up. He looked scuffed; one side of his tunic was covered in dirt and his knuckles were red and bloodied. Yet he stood tall.

They were paired off into matches by the melee organizer, an older man whose black beard was shot with grey. The man planted a hand on Altair’s shoulder, which he shrugged off, and gestured to Ezio with one dark, suntanned hand.

 _He’s mine,_ Ezio thought with prickling excitement. He stepped forward.

Altair stood half a head taller than him. From this close, Ezio could see that his hair was light brown and sun-bleached and, below it, his skin was a deep, sun-kissed olive, smooth as polished wood. His brow was clear and intelligent, the line of his nose aristocratic, and he held himself with steady, purposeful grace. When their eyes met, Ezio felt a shock run through him and his skin prickled. His cheeks grew warm.  Altair was studying him back, and Ezio realized that his eyes were a deep, feral gold.

_Aquila._

Ezio thought about the forceful sun overhead and how it had held dominion over the skies for the past two days. Was that the god watching over its son?

The organizer looked between the two of them and spoke. “No killing,” he said in a terse accent. “First to yield or fall loses.”

He took a step beck. Raised his arm. Ezio dropped into a ready stance, both his fists raised near his face, and waited.

The arm dropped.

The fight that followed was quiet but furious. Frustratingly, fighting Altair was like fighting water. He slipped away from Ezio’s fists with uncommon speed, or deflected them harmlessly against his arms. Yet that was not all he was good at. When he chose to retaliate, he moved with frightful efficiency and slammed his fists into Ezio’s chest and sides.

It hurt, but Ezio didn’t falter. He returned every blow with equal ferocity, and blood ran down from his nose and his lips. When Altair went for an overhead swing, he dropped down and swept his legs out from under him. Instead of just dropping, however, Altair dove for him. They both went tumbling into the hot, red dirt. Ezio got a gritty mouthful of it but he didn’t pause to spit it out. He punched at Altair, who straddled his waist and jabbed his bony elbows into his face.

From his position under him, Altair’s face was in shadow. Behind his head, the sun shone and gave him a golden crown – a prince’s gilded circlet.

Altair’s fist swung down. After that, Ezio saw no more.

 

Ezio woke up on the last day of the competitions. His father was next to him when he did and seeing his son awake, he picked up the garland on his lap and pressed it on his forehead. “You did good, Ezio,” his father said, and pressed a kiss to his bruised face. “We’ll go home soon.”

The leaves of the wreath were cool and pricked his aching skin. It still smelled fresh; the sap of the cut laurel hadn’t fully dried and the odor was pungent. “Altair?” he asked. His lips stung.

“The god-born won the melee,” he said. “But of all his opponents, you were the fiercest.”

Ah, good. Satisfied, Ezio closed his eyes and went back to sleep again.

 

* * *

 

It would be many years before he saw Altair again.

Ezio skipped his stone across the skin of the sea, towards the egg-yolk setting sun. The clouds that gathered on the shimmering horizon were orange with smudges of pink, and the sea was as smooth as a polished mirror.

The beauty of it, however, was interrupted by the long, slanted black lines of ship masts that littered the thin strip of rocky beach to his left. Blown here by the winds of war, now they were grounded on stranger shores. The war camp sprawled out from the ships. Somewhere in there was his father’s tent with its colorful pennant.

The reasons for the war were, in Ezio’s opinion, magnificently stupid and unaccountably varied depending on who you asked. Some people described it as a conflict of dishonor between two kings. The more cynically-minded said it was a power grab.

The truth of it hardly mattered to him. His father had been called to war for an oath he made as a younger man and as his son, Ezio had come along with him to fight under the banner of King Orion. Tomorrow they would parley with the armies of King Magnus. When that inevitably fell out, they would battle.

Ezio picked up another slick stone, weighed it in his hand, and tossed it to sea. It skipped thrice before sinking under the sky-colored waters.

 

The day of battle was cloudless and painfully bright. Ezio, armored and ready, wheeled his horse closer to his father as the army milled around them. There were thousands of men on this field today and they brought their noise and stench with them; hooves and feet churned the formerly green pasture into dusty grit; pennants snapped on the wind, declaring their allegiances.

 _“Padre,_ ready?” he asked.

For a moment, his father did not answer. Then he said, “Federico, watch your brother.”

Behind them, his brother trotted up on his bay gelding. He grinned when he heard those words, while Ezio frowned. _“Padre,_ I am twenty now! Federico should concentrate on not getting a spear to the belly instead.”

“I’ll not leave this field today with a dead son,” his father said. He was especially sober today and his typical good humor was not present. Ezio considered trying to lighten the mood, but decided against it. Federico, sensing his mood, leaned over and gave him a brotherly pat on the shoulder.

“Don’t worry,” he whispered. “You’ll have plenty of moments for glory.”

Before them, the walled city-state of Tesarus stood tall. At its base, a boiling morass ranged against them, their helmets and armors flashing in the rising light. A few stray arrows from overeager archers already dotted the proving grounds between the two armies and every so often, one flew out and stabbed the soft soil.

“Be ready,” their father said and Ezio nodded. Excitement wobbled inside of him like an unsteady cup that would imminently spill. His armor was fitted for him, but it was new and it chafed; his spear weighed down his arm. His heart had already been thrumming but when the horn blew, it galloped.

In a singular mass, they lurched into a jog. Men put their shields over their head as one to protect themselves from the arrows, while spears thrust out to force open the ranks of the Tesarans.

Ezio’s horse coursed forward like a released arrow and his breath came thickly under his helmet. His vision narrowed to the army, the thunder of his beast’s hooves, and the thick shaft he held.

The front lines collided in an eruption of sound. The writhing mass of armies quickly mingled as some men got in deeper than others, and a few immediately died to spears or arrows. Some tripped and ended up trampled under indiscriminate feet. Ezio’s horse reared and kicked out, smashing one man flat, and he used the momentum of it descending to drive his spear into the body of another. He tried to tug it free but it was stuck fast.

Abandoning it, he drew his sword. More men went down to his flashing blade in sprays of blood and screams, but there was no time to concentrate on their deaths. Ezio spurred his horse forth and they sprang further into the fray. More warm blood spattered Ezio’s armor and face, but there was no time to wipe his eyes.

As he cut down another soldier, a cry went up. At first, Ezio thought it was a battle cry of some sort, or a cheer. After listening to it more, he realized it was a chant.

 _“Alnasr!_   _Alnasr! Alnasr!”_

It was a single word. Or, Ezio thought as he looked up, a name.

A chariot drove from the walls of Tesarus towards the armies of King Orion. Bright red banners streamed from the sides of the deep grey wood, and it was drawn by two horses so large, so furious, that they could not be any mortal beast. Their coats were so bright that they might have been made from gold, and their hooves seemed to pound sparks into the ground like the blacksmith’s hammer. Their eyes rolled white with outrage as they charged into the army fearlessly.

Spears bounced off. Sword edges fell blunt. Nothing could stop them as they surged into people, and yet they were not simply maddened beasts. The man who held their reigns kept them under his control as he raised a spear with his other hand and drove it into the chest of the soldier next to Ezio, who was close enough to feel the wind of its passage.

 _“Alnasr!_   _Alnasr! Alnasr!”_

The man – Alnasr – must have churned through mud and soil to come here, and yet he looked untouched. His armor glowed like red flame and then he tugged his helmet off, utterly unafraid. The sunlight bent towards him and ringed his head with luminous gold, and Ezio knew that face.

This was Alnasr: Altair, son of the sun, prince of distant Masyaf, and today, a hero to his enemies.

This could not go on.

Without sparing any further thought, Ezio raised his sword and charged Altair.

The appearance of his horse startled the beasts under Altair’s command at last; they reared back in unison, screaming, their hooves ripping at the air, but Ezio was not there. His sleek little mare darted to the side, bringing him level with Altair’s chariot. He swung out, aiming to knock the prince off.

His sword was met by a spear. Despite this, Altair did not let go of the reigns and recognition flared in his strange eyes. Ezio kept level with the chariot; three times he struck out, and three times Altair blocked him. They might have kept going like that forever if it weren’t for the rest of the army.

Someone threw their spear and whether by luck or a god’s guiding hand, it stuck into one of the wheels of Altair’s chariot. The shaft snapped as it turned, but the deed was done; the chariot lurched. Altair let go of the reigns and leapt off.

It was simple to kill a grounded man while mounted. And yet, Ezio leapt off his horse to face Altair.

The prince unsheathed his sword. It was pale as milk and strangely shaped – curved like the moon – but he wielded it skillfully. He kicked up dust as he swung for Ezio’s neck. Their blades kissed as Ezio thrust his sword up, and the edges sang as they ran along each other.

Altair stepped back. After a moment, Ezio darted forward and they were fighting. The world narrowed into Altair, who was still like water and smoke, still as slippery as a fish, but Ezio refused to let him away. Time and time again, they clashed until they were close enough to stare into each other’s eyes, brown into gold, hot breaths over each other’s skin, until the pressure grew too great and they retreated.

The fight could have lasted for seconds. It could have been days. It no longer mattered. The noise of the battling armies faded into a dull roar for Ezio as he and Altair danced around each other, never drawing blood.

If they were left like this, they could have gone on for days. But it was then that Altair’s father chose to make himself known.

A shadow fell over the battlefield, a shadow of an eagle greater than anything that lived, whose mere feather-tips were wider than a man was tall, and a piercing cry rattled skulls. Ezio stumbled for a precious moment, allowing Altair’s blade to cut into his shoulder. It happened quickly enough that Ezio felt no pain.

This close, he saw the expectation in Altair’s eyes. _You will die._

So Ezio sank his sword into his belly.

For a moment, the prince seemed to feel nothing. Then, his eyes widened and he looked down.

Ezio wished he could see what happened after. Instead, darkness stole over his eyes and he knew no more.

 

Ezio did not expect to awake, yet he did.

His rest was far too comfortable to be that of a prison or a medic’s tent, and he felt clean and unburdened. When he opened his eyes, it was to an opulent room: a room of kings. Purple drapery covered the walls and a breeze licked his cheek.

He tried to sit up. The pain that flashed through his body told him that he was not actually dead. He tried to sit up again, but more carefully this time, and looked around more. He was alone in the room. He’d been resting on a _kline._ There were two more _klines_ in the room with him, arranged in a loose half-circle, and a table between them. It bore a small platter of fruits and a bronze cup of wine.

After a moment’s hesitation, Ezio drank the water to soothe his sandy mouth, the plucked a fig from the platter. It was ripe; the fruit burst under his teeth and the juices ran down his chin.

Ezio ate it as he slowly walked around the room. It was on his second turn that someone appeared. He stopped when he saw her, unsure and wary, but she did nothing but bow for him. She was slight-figured woman who looked old enough to be his mother, and her skin was pale, her hair walnut-brown and arranged in a coiled braid. She wore a simple dress – simple enough that she had to be a servant of this house.

“Where am I?” he asked her.

She said nothing and gestured to the doorway she came from.

“ _Signora,_ where am I?” he insisted, louder.

Nothing. Ezio frowned until she shook her head and said something in a rolling, burbling language. No proper master would keep a servant who couldn’t even speak in his home, so Ezio was not where he should have been. This made him wary, but there was no reason for him to linger here.

He allowed her to lead him through the rest of the home. The rooms she lead him through were all equally ornate and Ezio’s curiosity reached its peak when she stopped before a set of massive bronze doors. They’d been intricately carved with images of charging bulls, but Ezio did not stop to admire them. He pushed them open and ignored the servant’s gasp.

What he saw nearly blinded him. He squeezed his eyes shit immediately but the black shadows remained; a throne room and two men within.

No, that was not true. Whatever he had seen had not been a man.

He carefully opened his eyes again and realized that he’d intruded upon a god.

Aquila was not as Ezio expected him to be. He had imagined an eagle, really, though one big enough to be appropriately godly. What stood before him was not an eagle, but a man. He was taller than Ezio, probably taller than any living man. It was impossible to look at his face as his bright crown was as devastating as looking into the sun itself and Ezio had to cast his eyes down. His skin was golden and luminous, as if light hid under his very skin, and he wore a cloak of glossy eagle feathers that were too big to belong to any real bird. He was not close but Ezio could smell him, fire and pale honey.

“He wakes,” he said, and Ezio flinched. Aquila spoke with a tongue made of fire, and every word that came from his burning mouth crackled.

When he blinked again, however, the god was gone. The room felt shadowed after his departure and Ezio blinked more before he could see who the god had spoken to.

“You are alive,” said Prince Altair. He’d looked much smaller and darker next to his godly father. “The doctor said your wound was going to kill you.”

Ezio immediately thought of attacking him, but he was unarmed and in pain. All he could do was step further into the room, uncomprehending. “What have you done?” he finally asked.

“I did not expect the Iaconites to have god-born,” Altair said, as if he had not heard.

“What?”

“God-born,” the prince repeated. When Ezio continued to stare, Altair pulled aside his tunic to reveal the browned skin of his chest and belly. Just under his navel was a lump of yellow-stained linen. “You did this.”

Ezio remembered pushing his sword into the prince’s stomach. It should have killed him, but he was not a man – he was half a god. “Why am I here?” he finally asked. _Why am I not dead?_

The prince dropped his tunic, hiding his injury once more. “You are my prisoner,” he said.

Ezio’s heart sank. Then he asked, “Why did you not kill me instead?”

“I would not provoke another god,” Altair said.

For a moment, nothing of what he said made sense. Then all his talk of god-born and gods slid together into a whole and Ezio shook his head. “I am not god-born,” he said.

“You are,” Altair simply replied, immoveable.


End file.
